


Down from Darkened Heights

by linzeestyle



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst and Porn, Jealousy, M/M, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-07 18:32:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18878857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linzeestyle/pseuds/linzeestyle
Summary: Steve’s mind flashes back to the USO, to visits in hospital wings that smelled like antiseptic and the rot of flesh, the empty eyes of shell-shocked soldiers whose bodies were the only part of them to make it out alive. Skin and bone and the breathing dead. There’s something gone in Bucky and Steve doesn’t even know if he sees it yet, if he’s been swallowing down alcohol and playing his own roles because it’s what he remembers, or if he really doesn’t know just how bad he’s been hit.And a chill slides down Steve’s spine, because this isn’t the way that he’s going to lose him.





	Down from Darkened Heights

Steve’s still not used to attention from women — from anyone, really, not like that. It’s new in a way that leaves him stretched in his skin, and it takes him a beat too long after Peggy’s left the bar to realize that Bucky’s gone missing, too. It adds to the cold shock of shame when he notices, the curl of fear down his spine and the part of him that thinks that he could have been faster, pushed harder, could have done something to keep Bucky off of that cold metal table. He swallows it down and scans the warm-lit tavern, boisterous with alcohol and come-down euphoria.

The rest of Bucky’s chosen unit is right where he left them, a good five rounds in and all on his tab, and he sits down at the table in a parody of casual, back stiff and eyes scanning the crowd for a familiar flash of blue eyes. He almost misses the shot pushed in front of him, and when he declines Jones shrugs and grabs up the glass for himself, downing the alcohol in a smooth, liquid tilt.

“Barnes went out the back a couple minutes ago, something ‘bout giving you space with your girl.” Empty glass hits wood with a cool, hollow click; Jones pulls another shot from the center of the table. “Agent Carter your girl now, Cap?” The look Jones gives him is impossible to read, poker face even halfway to drunk. Somewhere between impressed and something harder, assessing, and Steve remembers that these men have been with Bucky for almost a year now — that to them, he’s the outsider, the one to watch out for. Across the table, Jones shrugs, tipping back another shot. “Could do worse. If that’s your pleasure.”

“It isn’t like that.” Steve’s eyes keep wandering, watching the door. 

“Not to hear James tell it.” And that’s Falsworth, now, from the other end of the table, looking at Steve over the rim of his stein. “Poor bastard.” 

“Yeah, well.” Steve pushes his seat back, making to move. “You know Bucky.” A version of him, anyway; he’s heard Bucky called just about every name he can think of, but poor anything is certainly a first. It unnerves him, makes him feel like he’s missing half of some story.

“We do indeed.” Falsworth waves a hand towards the exit. “He took his cigarettes, I imagine he’s out by the side of the building.” He reaches for a cigar. “Choke what you can’t kill, then.”

 Dugan coughs loudly.

“Right.” Steve nearly knocks the chair over in his haste to stand. “Thanks, fellas.” He leaves before he has the chance to hear what they’re saying behind him.

*

It’s cold outside and the shock of night air is a welcome relief. Steve shakes himself and ducks uselessly against the rain, checking alleys methodically and fighting down nerves. He finds Bucky a good half a mile from the tavern, a cigarette between his fingers. He smells like sweat and rain and thick, tarred tobacco and Steve wrinkles his nose and sits down beside him, close enough that they touch from hip to shoulder.

Steve nods at the cigarette in his hand. “When’d you pick that up?”

Bucky blinks in confusion, mouth forming around a silent oh when he fixes on the burning tobacco. “Huh. Sixteen? Seventeen? Don’t really remember. Never got ‘em too often. Didn’t want to bring ‘em home and mess up your chest even worse.”

Steve watches the cherry burn and considers it: that Bucky could hide something from him for so long, that he could be so thoroughly oblivious. “You didn’t have to do that, you know,” he says, finally.

 “Yeah, maybe.” He takes another, too-long drag, and this time he’s the one whose lungs seize up, a coughing fit that has him bent double, Steve rubbing his back, taking the cigarette. He stares at it, then pulls from it himself — the smoke is stale and burns his throat. 

“Don’t do that.” Bucky looks vaguely stricken. Steve just shrugs. “Can’t hurt me. Super soldier, remember?”

Bucky scowls. “Goddamn stupid, is what.”

Steve flicks the butt of the cigarette into the puddle in front of them, watches it hiss out into ash and wet paper. “You know I had to,” he says quietly. “I couldn’t stay home while there were people out here dying.”

“Right, because the whole damn world’s on your shoulders. This has nothing to do with proving yourself, nothing at all, right?” There’s a rot to his voice, now, gone brittle at the edges. “Got what you wanted, didn’t you. Even dames like that — what, Carter?” He fumbles in his back pocket, coming up with a pack of Lucky Strikes. “Only reason I ever gave a shit, Stevie, and just…” 

His hands shake as he pulls out a new smoke, and Steve takes pity on him, digging through his own pockets until he comes up with his zippo. The alley blocks the worst of the wind, but Steve still cups the wispy flame, letting Bucky lean in, too close, as he lights up.

“Come back inside, Buck. You’ve had a lot to drink.” A bottle at least, Steve guesses; Bucky’s been hitting the hard stuff for hours. In all honesty Steve’s surprised he isn’t on his ass right now. Instead, Bucky blinks at him slowly, takes a drag off his cigarette and looks down at muddied shoes.

“Not drunk.” Bucky lets himself slide flat against the brick wall, mindless of his uniform and the filth of the ground around them. “Tried hard enough.” He sounds unhappy.

Steve tries to keep the worry from showing on his face, reminds himself again that Bucky’s here and whole and safe. He’s been checked out by medics more times than either of them can count: Steve’s paranoia and the army’s morbid fascination with Zola, with his work, and Bucky’s had blood drawn, x-rays taken, been stitched up and photographed five ways to Sunday in the last twenty-four hours alone. There’s not a damn part of his body that’s been left to himself, and he looks wrecked for the process, uniform rumpled and haired skewed by the weather and his own restless fingers. He’s jittery, jaw clenched in a tic of nerves or the cold, and Steve wraps a careful arm around Bucky’s shoulders and urges him to lean in against his side. He tenses when Steve touches him, and that hurts more than anything. 

A horrible thought crawls into Steve’s head, leaving him dizzy. “Do you not. Is it this?” He gestures down at himself, at the body he’s still getting accustomed to, himself.

The noise Bucky makes is too shattered to count as a laugh.

“Fuck. You really don’t know the first—” He shakes his head. “Forget it Stevie. That Agent Carter seems like a firecracker. Always figured.” There’s something thick and acrid in his voice, though, and Steve watches him pull in too much smoke, and frowns.

 “You don’t like her.”

Bucky shrugs. “Can’t say. Don’t know her.”

Steve knows that’s not right, either. Bucky ignores Steve’s distress, though, and takes another too- long drag on his cigarette, head tipping back against the dirty wall. He looks up at the smoke, watching it slide out into the fog, and Steve finds his throat constricting because Bucky looks — hollow. Empty in a way Steve’s seen before, god, but never on Bucky, no. Bucky’s supposed to be untouchable, too bright and full of bull and bravado for even the war to change him. But….

Steve’s mind flashes back to the USO, to visits in hospital wings that smelled like antiseptic and the rot of flesh, the empty eyes of shell-shocked soldiers whose bodies were the only part of them to make it out alive. Skin and bone and the breathing dead. There’s something gone in Bucky and Steve doesn’t even know if he sees it yet, if he’s been swallowing down alcohol and playing his own roles because it’s what he remembers, or if he really doesn’t know just how bad he’s been hit.

And a chill slides down Steve’s spine, because this isn’t the way that he’s going to lose him.

“Bucky,” Steve breathes, and Bucky looks at him like he’s surprised he’s still there. It turns him in close enough that grabbing him is easy, hands on either side of Bucky’s face to pull him into a kiss that tastes like well whiskey and cigarettes. Desperate on Steve’s side and dry and shocked on Bucky’s, and Steve has no real comparison point but he’s sure this isn’t good, an awkward negotiation of lips and teeth and Bucky making a noise that could sound like a whimper. But Steve doesn’t let go, and Bucky finally catches up with him: a hand slides up to dig into his hair, the other curling against his cheek as Bucky twists against him, tongue licking against his mouth and legs spreading to bracket Steve’s hips. Somewhere, Steve hears a soft, desperate groan — and then Bucky chuckles into his mouth, and Steve realizes the sound is coming from him.

Bucky pulls back, panting, and his pupils are wide. 

“You—we gotta stop now, or it’s not gonna happen.” He tugs Steve’s hips down against his and Steve stifles another groan, feeling Bucky, already half-hard, even through the fabric of his uniform slacks. “Fuck, this is stupid. You got a girl, you always wanted to—to wait for the right— I’m not gonna screw that up for you.”

The remorse in Bucky’s voice makes something in Steve pull like a trigger; he grips Bucky’s thighs and hauls them both up, Bucky’s back stuttering against the filthy wet wall, probably scraping, unquestionably ruining his uniform jacket. He surprises himself with the possessiveness of it; Bucky just leans back into the brick, squirming for friction against Steve’s stomach.

It works out well: Bucky’s distracted by sensation long enough for Steve to grip his chin, pulling him into a kiss that’s far more determination than ability, Steve sliding his tongue across Bucky’s, sloppy, and swallowing the shocked noise he makes before it can leave the alley.

When Steve pulls back it’s to catch the skin of Bucky’s jaw with his teeth, sucking a pointed mark that he’ll have no way of hiding come morning.

“You’re not listening when I tell you me and Peggy aren’t like that, so you’re just going to have to trust me when I say I’d never do this if we were. Fair deal?”

Bucky whimpers in response. Both of his hands dig tight in Steve’s hair and his eyes flutter closed, neck tipping back in submission. Steve weighs their options, briefly — because Bucky’s wrong about him and Peggy, but not about the second part, and Steve’s wanted Bucky since he can remember understanding what wanting really meant. But a back alley would never have been his first choice for a venue. He remembers walking home late, seeing guys by the docks and pretending he didn’t; remembers money changing hands, asking Bucky about it, later, the laugh and the swing of an arm across his shoulder, asking if Steve was thinking about getting some cash on the side. It feels horribly lewd, now, not because Steve’s ever believed any of it was wrong, but because they only get one first try at this. But Bucky’s forehead is pressed to Steve’s, eyes closed and panting breath against his cheek, and Steve decides, quite firmly, that it doesn’t matter. He crowds them both forward until the wall is bracing a little more of Bucky’s weight, and then he’s sliding his hand between them to get at the fastenings of Bucky’s slacks.

“Oh,” Bucky breathes, when Steve’s hand slips in through the slit in his boxers, pulling out his cock. “Oh fuck.” He’s already straining, precome beading at the head, and Steve grins, kisses him, teasing, and pulls back.

“You—” Steve swipes a thumb under the head, circles the girth of it in a loose fist. A careful slide of fingers like he’s done to himself his whole life, and Bucky loses whatever line of thought he was following. His hips come up, chasing skin, and Steve tightens his grip, letting Bucky rock into it. He uses the hand holding Bucky’s thigh to hitch him tighter against him, and Bucky’s ankles lock around Steve’s back. He’s trapped like this, pressed against the wall and legs tangled in his pants, and Steve thinks for a fevered second that it’s too much, too soon, that he should give Bucky space, after the way he found him. Then Bucky grinds against his stomach, mouth sucking his collar, worrying his dog tags, and Steve lets go of Bucky’s cock long enough to slide his hand lower, scrape blunt nails over his tightening balls and push his palm to the base of Bucky’s cock. Bucky gasps and bites down on the steel tags in his mouth.

“Steve,” he groans, muffled and only half-coherent through the fog in his brain and the metal in his mouth. “Steve, wait, wait, I wanna—.”

Steve groans and drops his forehead to Bucky’s shoulder, closing his eyes as Bucky’s hand slides down. He makes quick work of Steve’s belt and fly, and then he’s pushed his pants down his thighs and he’s batting Steve’s hand away, grabs it and pulls it up to his chest. It only takes a moment for Steve to get with the program: his thumb draws circles around one stiff nipple, and Bucky lets the tags fall out of his mouth, gone slack with pleasure even as a deft hand twists around both of their cocks, even as he rocks his hips, guiding the movement. Steve scrapes down Bucky’s chest too hard when he arches up in earnest, but it just makes Bucky hiss, free hand fisting in the fabric of Steve’s crumpled lapels.

“Fuck. Fuck.”

“Yeah, working on it,” mumbles Steve, watching between their bodies as he ruts against Bucky. Bucky giggles, a little hysterical, and the hand in Steve’s lapel pulls, tightening around his neck. Steve retaliates by sliding his own hand into Bucky’s rumpled jacket, rolling and pinching his nipples through rough cotton and oh, Steve may have imagined himself an artist but he could never have done something like this justice. Not the moment Bucky falls apart, burning up against Steve in a cold alley. His head drops back, body bright and imperfect, like staring at the sun. Steve feels the warm seep of semen on his uniform jacket and Bucky groans, pushing at his shoulders and sliding onto feet that don’t quite hold him up, sticky and half-hard against Steve’s leg.

“Lemme—wait.” Bucky gets his hand around Steve’s cock, palm damp and hot and the twist of his arm more focused than before. And Steve bites his lip, pleasure coiling tight in his spine, but it’s Bucky himself, that pulls him over: the way his face tips up, chin hooked on Steve’s shoulder, looking at him like he’s worth everything that’s happened. It twists in Steve’s heart and then hard in his stomach, pulling an orgasm from him like knocking wind from his lungs. He breathes through it, shaky, and when he opens his eyes again Bucky’s touching his face, fingers ghosting his jaw like he’s trying to tease out a memory. 

“You okay,” Steve asks, still a little wobbly. Bucky huffs, and smiles, softer than he's been since home.

“Never better,” he says, and his voice is shaky, effacing like he’s not quite sure he knows what’s real. “Just making sure I don’t forget anything.”

 

* 

There’s a hotel, three blocks south. Steve doesn’t ask why Bucky knows to come here: it’s cheap, and it’s empty, and the lobby gives them a key and doesn’t ask any questions, not when two soldiers ask for one room between them, not when they’re both wet with rain and mud and visibly rumpled by far more than either. Eventually, Steve knows, they’ll have to make it back to base.

Eventually, even on liberty, their higher-ups will start to question their absence.

Not just yet, though. He pulls Bucky down onto the bed and pretends that they can hide from the future.

There’s sunlight coming in through flimsy black-out curtains before they start to drift off, a tangle of sticky limbs and exhaustion across the single full mattress. Steve stretches himself across the span of Bucky’s back like gravity alone could hold them together, linking their fingers and tracing the bone and sinew across the lines of his left hand. Sniper's hands, Steve thinks — somewhere between now and the last time Steve saw him, Bucky became a killer. He’s ended lives. They both have.

Steve pulls their linked hands high enough to kiss Bucky’s knuckles.

“Did you mean it,” asks Bucky, voice soft and awed as Steve lets their hands back down on the mattress. “What you said about you and Carter.”

“Think I’d lie to make time with you?” Steve kisses the back of his neck. “Already accusing me of loving ‘em and leaving.” He _tsks_ , and Bucky reaches back enough to smack him. “Bucky—hell, you gotta know what I’m gonna say.” Steve feels, rather than sees, the shrug underneath him; he puts his forehead on Bucky’s back and continues. “Peggy’s a knockout. She’s one hell of a woman. I’d be damn lucky if she ever thought about giving me the time of day.” 

He swears he hears a grumble low in Bucky’s chest. “Don’t hold back or anything,” he mumbles into the flat pillows. 

Steve squeezes his hand. “But I met you first. I loved you first—I always did, Buck. And if this is something—if there’s even a chance here, then I’d never even… It’d be wrong to lead anybody else on.” He takes a deep breath, ignoring the way his chest shakes. “I missed you, Buck.”

He feels Bucky twist, and lets his weight up long enough for him to roll over, arms coming up to wrap around Steve’s shoulders. “Over and over,” Bucky agrees, and Steve worries at the haze in his eyes, but doesn’t say anything, because Bucky’s going lax, finally, and this is more important.

Steve falls asleep with Bucky on his back again, curled up against him, too heavy and awkward and still the safest he’s felt since Brooklyn. Careful fingers against his spine write over a lullaby, and has he slips under he swears he can hear Bucky, barely speaking, tapping prints against Steve’s ribs like he’s counting down time.

_christ, please let this stay in my head._


End file.
